July 2008

A solitary or blue-headed vireo—”more deliberate, higher, sweeter” (Peterson) than its red-eyed cousin—calling at the edge of the woods.

A bumblebee working the bergamot clambers over a green shield bug that’s rooted to its straw, a tiny leaf swelling on a sap-filled stem.

A bat swoops past my face—a puff of wind. The interminable whistle of a train creeping toward the crossing. A sliver of moon.

A patch of a deer-tongue grass a mere three feet from my porch—how come I never noticed it before? Am I too busy to watch the grass grow?

In the almost still air, one long walnut leaf pivots like a hand on a wrist. A tiny caterpillar floats past my face on an invisible tether.

A crashing sound from the springhouse meadow: a pair of bucks chasing each other, frisky as fawns and neck-deep in weeds they do not eat.

Clear sky, 55°F. A cicada and a wood pewee singing at the same time: Sunlight! Shadows! Up in the other house, the phones begin to ring.